Chapter 11: The Long Healing (Revised)

The first snows came early that year, dusting the prairie with white by the end of October.

Firebird stood outside the tipi, wrapped in a heavy buffalo robe, watching the flakes drift down from a gray sky. Winter was coming, and she dreaded it. Winter meant being confined to the tipi for long stretches. Winter meant limited food, hunger, cold. Winter meant relying on stored meat and dried berries when her damaged body could barely tolerate the best of foods.

But winter also meant survival. If they made it through the winter, they would see spring. And spring meant hope, renewal, the return of life to the frozen prairie.

“Come inside,” Morning Star called from the tipi entrance. “You’ll catch cold.”

Firebird turned, managing a small smile. Morning Star worried constantly now—about Firebird’s health, about the children, about whether their food stores would last, about everything. The weight of keeping their small family alive had fallen largely on her shoulders, and she bore it with quiet strength.

“I’m coming.”

Inside, the tipi was warm from the fire. Tall Elk sat near the flames, playing with a toy horse Red Hawk had carved for him months ago. He was walking confidently now, even running, getting into everything with the fearless curiosity of a toddler. Little Bird lay on soft furs, awake and alert, her dark eyes following the dancing shadows cast by the fire.

Firebird lowered herself carefully to the ground—even that simple motion still sent twinges of pain through her damaged muscles. She would never move without some discomfort again, she’d accepted that. But she could move, and that was something.

“Did you eat while I was outside?” she asked Morning Star.

“I was waiting for you.”

“Morning Star—”

“We eat together. Always.” Morning Star’s voice was firm. “That’s the rule.”

It was a rule Morning Star had instituted weeks ago, after discovering that Firebird would often claim she’d already eaten to avoid having Morning Star watch her struggle with food. Now they ate every meal together, small portions, carefully chosen foods that Firebird’s damaged body might tolerate.

Morning Star brought out the evening meal—broth made from rabbit bones, boiled soft berries, a tiny portion of dried meat pounded soft and mixed with fat to make it easier to digest. Humble food, but prepared with love and careful thought for what Firebird’s stomach could handle.

Firebird ate slowly, taking small bites, chewing thoroughly. She managed most of the broth and berries before the familiar queasiness started. She set the bowl aside, breathing carefully through her nose, waiting for the nausea to pass.

“That’s good,” Morning Star said encouragingly. “You did well.”

“I barely ate anything.”

“You ate. That’s what matters.” Morning Star finished her own larger portion—someone needed to maintain strength, and Firebird was glad it could be Morning Star—then moved to feed Tall Elk.

The boy ate enthusiastically, as toddlers did, getting more food on his face than in his mouth. He was growing so fast, changing every day. Sometimes Firebird would look at him and see Red Hawk’s features emerging—the set of his jaw, the shape of his eyes, the way he tilted his head when he was thinking.

It hurt. But it was also a gift. Red Hawk lived on in his son.

After the meal, after Tall Elk had been cleaned and Little Bird nursed, the four of them settled into their sleeping furs. Tall Elk between Firebird and Morning Star, Little Bird cradled against Firebird’s chest. The family that remained.

“Tell me about when you and Red Hawk first met,” Morning Star said quietly into the darkness.

It was a ritual they’d developed. Almost every night, Morning Star would ask Firebird to tell a story about Red Hawk. Sometimes it was how they’d met. Sometimes it was a hunt they’d gone on together, or a joke he’d told, or a moment of tenderness. Morning Star wanted to keep his memory alive, to make sure that even though he was gone, he wasn’t forgotten.

And Firebird needed to tell the stories. Needed to speak his name, to remember him as he’d lived, not just how he’d died.

“I was so scared,” Firebird began, and Morning Star settled in to listen, as she always did.

The winter was hard.

Food was scarce. The buffalo herds that should have been within hunting distance had been decimated by white hunters, and the Cheyenne had to range farther and farther to find game. The warriors who went out sometimes returned empty-handed, and hungry nights became more common.

Firebird’s limited ability to eat meant she grew thinner despite Morning Star’s best efforts. The damaged muscles in her abdomen made digestion difficult, and she had to be careful about everything she ate. Meat had to be very soft, almost shredded, mixed with fat to help it go down easier. She could manage broths and soft-boiled vegetables, mashed berries, and sometimes dried meat that had been pounded to mush. But heavy meals, rich foods, anything that required her weakened stomach muscles to work hard—those made her sick.

Some days were better. She could eat a reasonable amount and feel only mild discomfort. Other days were worse, and even the smell of food made her stomach turn. On those days, she subsisted on weak broth and water, and by evening she’d be weak and shaking from lack of nourishment.